The Spoils Of War
by Anya2
Summary: Arthur/Morgana set in 1x10. The rush of battle is a high that needs an outlet...


**Title:** The Spoils Of War

**Rating:** T

**Characters:** Arthur, Morgana, Gwen, Hunith

**Pairing:** Arthur/Morgana

**Spoilers:** 1x10

**Warnings:** Some mentions of naughtiness ;)

**Summary:** The rush of battle is a high that needs an outlet...

* * *

Arthur ushered the women outside, instructing Merlin to do what he could for Will. He might as well have just told him to sit with the boy whilst he died. Arthur had seen enough battle to know nothing could save him now.

As they stepped into the open air, Hunith looked around her at the battered remains of her village, wiping her hands on her skirts before setting herself with a determined breath.

"We have a lot of work to do," she said, tempering her words with a smile however that showed relief, knowing it could have been much worse. Buildings could be mended and possessions were worth little in comparison to life itself. Much better they take the brunt of the attack than flesh and bones.

With a grateful nod, she headed directly off, no doubt to organise others into ensure all the fires were safely extinguished and to begin repairs on what had been broken. Gwen instantly followed, always keen to help.

Arthur watched them for a moment before glancing across at Morgana. He was surprised she didn't head off after them also, knowing she usually took it upon herself to get involved in whatever was going on. Instead though, she was looking directly at him with a curious sort of intensity that he couldn't really fathom. On past experience he would have thought it to be anger but it didn't feel like that to him. Her scrutiny seemed like something much deeper, almost predatory in its intent. A little uncomfortable, he turned away, unsheathing his sword to clean the blade on a pile of hay that sat nearby. Somehow he couldn't help but take another fleeting glance in her direction though, feeling even more uneasy when his mind chose that moment to idly ponder the fact that she could look beautiful even with her hair tied roughly back and only simple fighting clothes on.

Starting to feel embarrassed with the both the silence and his own thoughts, he cleared his throat a little as he re-sheathed his weapon.

"I suppose that could have gone much worse," he pointed out, a plain and desperate attempt in his eyes to dissolve the sudden tension. "We could have lost many more."

Still she was silent, her gaze following him fixedly as he walked closer towards her. It was almost as if he was confronting her, he mused. Trying to show her that she didn't unnerve him, even if that was a lie.

"I thought you handled yourself admirably," he continued, endeavouring to make it sound light and conversational, but really struggling to find something else to say. "I obviously taught you well."

Morgana was a head shorter than him and as slender as he was broad. There was absolutely no way she should be able to catch him physically off guard, yet she did. Her fingers grabbed him by handfuls of chainmail, his feet stumbling as she turned him round and pushed him hard back against the wall, knocking the breath out of him. For a moment he thought he must have angered her somehow and then all thoughts were stolen as her lips crashed unexpectedly into his.

Her mouth was hard against him, one hand sliding up the back of his neck and gripping his hair almost painfully to force him closer. When he failed to react, she bit at his bottom lip in irritated encouragement and he groaned as the shock he'd felt changed instantly into unfathomable desire. He wished he could will his hands into doing anything but hang limply at his sides yet they remained frozen. That didn't seem to matter though as she took advantage of his open mouth, her velvet tongue duelling forcibly with his as he suddenly responded in kind out of pure carnal instinct, his rational mind completely leaving him.

And then she pulled away, the kiss ending as abruptly as it had begun. She stepped back, leaving him still pressed against the wall, his breathing heavy. He felt the cold rush of air against him, chilling him where her body had so warmly been a moment ago.

She bit her bottom lip slightly as he smiled at him, the mixture of girlish embarrassment and barely concealed pleasure the most desirable thing he'd ever seen.

"Sorry," she said, sounding distinctly unapologetic. "Battle just gets my blood flowing. I have to do something to appease it or I'd go quite mad."

There was an amused teasing in her tone, telling him that she thought she entirely had the upper hand. That she'd enjoyed the flirtation, toying with him for her own wants and on her own terms. The realisation spurred on a pride and defiance in him that made him act when he should walk away.

"You're not the only one," he said with a nod. Without warning he grabbed her hips and pulled her back to him, his mouth assaulting hers. He barely broke contact as he turned them, pinning her between him and the wall this time, one hand now running up into her hair as their tongues did battle once more.

She let out a little mewl of surprise as his other hand ran up her side, slightly brushing against her breast before it came to rest on her cheek. Had she had the chance she probably would have slapped him for that but her hands were too busy sliding around his body and down to his backside, pulling him more firmly towards her. It was his turn to gasp in surprise then and she smiled against his lips in victory.

Yes, his blood was flowing, he realised, and it was going quickly to the wrong places. He tore his lips hurriedly from hers in case this suddenly became all too embarrassing, stepping back and thanking heaven that the chainmail was loose enough to hide anything. He stared at her for a long moment, her hair dishevelled, her chest heaving and lips a little swollen, and it took all his will power not to go to her again.

What was wrong with him? This was Morgana for heaven's sake.

Which, he instantly realised, was exactly the problem. It was Morgana. And the feelings he kept buried for her had threatened more than once to come to the surface of late, his pride and some odd fear of rejection the only thing apparently holding him back. He would dream of her some nights, of her long, pale fingers tracing patterns on his chest and of a curtain of raven hair falling about him as she leant down to kiss him. Of his callous hands sliding up her soft thighs and of the rapturous look on her face as he moved within in. He'd tried to tell himself so many times that it was only her beauty that affected him and that that wasn't really so dangerous, yet he knew it was a lie.

"We should go and help put out the fires," he said, swallowing hard, trying to steady his voice.

He couldn't help but see the irony in that statement. The fires in the village weren't the only ones that they needed to get under control.

"Yes," she agreed with a nod, a crack appearing in her pleased self assurance. She had clearly meant this as some kind of thrill filled tease, thinking that she could kiss him, leave him dumbfounded and saunter off with no repercussions. That hadn't been the case though, the tables turning on them both.

Apparently trusting herself to say and do no more, she hurried off.

He hesitated a moment before he followed, taking time to catch his breath and slow his pounding heart. No woman had ever inflamed his passions the way she was able to and it both frightened and exhilarated him.

And even though he told himself not to be a fool and to concentrate on the task at hand, the only thing he could think of he headed off to help the others, was that perhaps the two of them should start sparring again.

Just to help improve her skills of course.


End file.
